Targets of Deception (28 page)

When they reached the corner, they had a line of sight on him again. Kerrigan saw him cross the wide Boulevard and they waited, giving Jordan a more comfortable lead, then went after him.

Andrioli nodded to himself as he viewed the proceedings from his ringside seat in the corner café across the way. Hiding behind a newspaper, he watched Christine leaving in the cab, Jordan heading off to their appointed meeting place and the two trailers following in a carefully choreographed ballet of pursuit.

Andrioli waited until he saw Jordan safely cross the Boulevard in the direction of their rendezvous, the cathedral known as Saint-German-des-Près. He stood up, left a tip for his espresso and croissant, then stepped out into the brisk morning air. He did not recognize Kerrigan or his partner, but he made them immediately. He knew how Traiman worked and expected a two-man team. Andrioli doubted they had backup in place. Not if they were onto Sandor this quickly. Jordan and Christine had obviously surprised them by coming to the hotel, and there hadn’t been enough time to activate another pair of hitters.

He stood on the corner for a moment, watching, but saw no signs of anyone else in the hunt. Andrioli timed his move to cover Jordan’s back. Left on his own, the two assassins would surely kill Sandor within a matter of minutes. But Andrioli knew where Jordan was going, and that gave him the edge.

Rather than traveling along the bend of the avenue where they might spot him, Andrioli walked quickly to his left, then made a right on Rue Jacob. He moved with purpose, criss-crossing the narrow street twice, prepared for what might still be coming from behind. He held his attaché case tightly in his left hand, his right gripping the Colt beneath his coat.

After walking full circle around the church, Andrioli turned up the Rue Saint Benoit and stepped into a dark, quiet doorway on the side of the ancient stone cathedral. From there he could not miss them. Not if Jordan came this way.

Sandor did not disappoint. He hurried along the Rue Bonaparte, not breaking stride. He was fully exposed now but if he stopped, or even hesitated, his pursuers would know he had reached a meeting place. Or even worse, an ambush.

Instead, Jordan continued past the side of the church and through the small square, as if heading for the quay along the Seine. Andrioli waited, but no one appeared. He did not want to risk showing himself, but Jordan was leaving his line of sight. He hesitated, knowing that he would put them both in danger if he made a move from his doorway.

Jordan did not even glance in his direction as he walked by, keeping his gait brisk, passing within feet of Andrioli as he turned right towards the back of the cathedral.

That was when the first of the two men appeared. Just as Jordan was entering the tiny Rue des Beaux-Arts, the smaller man came into view around the far corner. He was pulling a gun from inside his jacket. He appeared to be alone.

It was the smart play, of course. His partner had likely circled back, anticipating Sandor’s course. Or he might have gone toward the river, or even hidden in one of the other recesses along the cathedral wall on the opposite side. Andrioli knew he was past waiting now. Once Jordan was completely out of his sight, he could not cover him.

“Traiman,” Andrioli hollered, and the man on the Rue Bonaparte instinctively turned to the sound of the shout. It was all Andrioli wanted. A split second to freeze him, and to give Jordan an instant to react. Andrioli stepped from the doorway, squeezing off two shots. The bullets whizzed through the silencer he had attached and, finding their target, spun the man and dropped him to the ground.

That extra moment was all Sandor needed. In one agile motion he drew his automatic from his belt and dove to safety in a nearby doorway. Quiet returned to the street with an eerie suddenness.

Jordan, squatting in the sanctuary of his portal, peered out at the small square adjacent to the church. Neither Andrioli nor Sandor could see each other now, and neither of them had a bead on Kerrigan. They were both vulnerable, since Kerrigan would have spotted where the shots had come from. He would also have seen where Sandor had positioned himself. There was also the problem of the man lying in the street, dead or dying, with someone sure to happen by soon. The longer they waited, the worse their prospects became.

Jordan broke from his doorway, running toward two parked cars, hoping to draw fire and expose Kerrigan’s position.

No shots came.

He darted from between the cars, heading away from the church to create a crossfire with Andrioli. He stopped beside a small van opposite Andrioli’s perch, and they exchanged quick nods. Jordan signaled that they should both break for the corner.

Andrioli gave him the thumbs-up and Jordan did not hesitate. He moved first, rounding the corner in a tight, swift stride, Andrioli soon behind. Still there were no shots, no sign of the tall American. The only sound was a woman’s scream from somewhere in the small square. She had discovered the body of the first man lying in the street.

The two men raced the length of the Rue des Beaux-Arts, each taking a side of the narrow street, then turned up towards the Seine. There, they rested together in another entranceway, another unavailing haven from a danger that may or may not yet be in pursuit.

Andrioli was panting. “Man, am I outta shape.”  

“The American,” Jordan said. “The one still out there. He shot Dan Peters and the cop in Woodstock. And McHugh.”

Andrioli nodded, still searching for air. “We could use a little extra motivation right now. Revenge is good.” He smiled, but his eyes were still alert. “But I don’t think he’s out there anymore. He’s a paid hit man doing a job, not a fanatic on a religious mission. He knows they blew their chance. He’s gone by now.”

“Maybe,” Jordan said, still watching the street. “Let’s take a minute and wait.”

They stepped back into the vestibule of the apartment house overlooking the river. Andrioli leaned against the stone wall, and Jordan watched him, smiling at the attaché case he still had clutched under his left arm and had carried like a football as they dashed through the streets of Paris.

“Fond of that thing, are you?”

“You can laugh, if you want,” he said, “but this baby is going to be the difference in us making it or not, believe me.”

“Okay, so now what?”

“There are two guys who might help. I need to get with at least one of them. Word’s out that I’m back in town, so we should move fast. But first I gotta ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“How deep are you into this mess? I mean, really.”

Jordan sighed. “I’m in for the long haul. Let’s leave it at that.”

Andrioli nodded his understanding that this was all he would be getting, and that for now it was enough.

Jordan said, “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Why not?”

“Did you meet Christine when she came to see McHugh in Paris?”

“Yeah,” Andrioli said. “Why?”

“He ever tell you she was his sister?”

“Hey, that’s two questions. I only got one.”

“I owe you one.”

“I’ll remember that. Yeah, sure. He said she was his half sister, something like that. That’s what he said, anyway.”

Jordan nodded. “Okay.”

“So,” Andrioli asked, “where’d you send her?”

“Fouquet’s.”

He stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “
Très touriste
, no?”

“Only place I could think of at the moment. I told her we’d meet her in an hour. Otherwise, she should get herself to the embassy.”

“And call in the cavalry, I suppose.”

“Nuclear strike force.”

“We can’t let her do that now, can we?”

Jordan smiled. “Not yet.” He paused. “But I do think it’s time to cut her loose, don’t you?”

The sound of footsteps reached them before Andrioli could respond. They tensed, ready for action. Andrioli leveled his automatic just as a young Frenchman and his girlfriend happened by, arm in arm, the barrel of the gun pointed at his head.

The youngsters froze.

“Sorry,” Jordan said, offering them an apologetic grin as he reached out and gently pushed Andrioli’s gun to his side.

The boy made some remark about crazy Americans then hurried away.

Jordan laughed. “You really are out of shape.”

“I guess I am,” Andrioli conceded as he stuck the automatic under his jacket.

“So what do you think? About Christine, I mean?”

“Were you serious about letting her go to the embassy?

“Of course. If we don’t make it, what else is she going to do?”

Andrioli shook his head. “I don’t like that sonuvabitch Covington, I gotta tell you.”

“Neither do I,” Jordan admitted. “Come on, let’s go get her before she leaves, then we’ll figure out what’s next.”

FORTY-THREE

Christine looked at her watch again and had another sip of coffee.

The waiter came by and asked if she would like something else. She had been playing with a brioche and a cup of coffee for the past half hour.

No, she insisted, she was waiting for someone.

Of course you are
, the waiter seemed to say when he responded with a sympathetic look.

Christine ignored him and checked her watch one more time before lighting another cigarette. She didn’t smoke, but this morning she found herself anxiously working through a pack of Gauloises.

Sandor and Andrioli arrived at Fouquet’s, having taken the precaution of changing cabs in front of the Hotel Crillon, then asking the second driver to travel around L’Etoile and back to the other side of the Champs-Elysées. When they stepped onto the street, they spotted Christine at a small table inside the glass-walled café, nervously puffing on a cigarette. She saw them and stood up.

Inside the restaurant she embraced each man as if she had not seen them in years. The waiter, obviously surprised to find that not one, but two gentlemen had joined her, came by to take their order. Jordan asked for a round of cognacs and, although none of them had an appetite for food, ordered sandwiches. Fouquet’s more elegant cuisine would be wasted on them today.

After they told Christine everything that had happened on the Left Bank, Andrioli wrote down the name and address of a hotel on the Rue de Rivoli. It was an elegant place, he told them, and they would be well insulated there. When they instructed the front desk that they were not to be disturbed, they would not be disturbed. Andrioli would call and make the arrangements in the name of Jordan’s alias, Scott Kerr.

“What about you?” Christine asked.

“I’ve got to pay a surprise visit to one of my friends.” He thought that over as he sipped his cognac. “Might not be much of a surprise at this point.”

Jordan agreed. “We’ve got to assume they’re watching every one of your contacts.”

“Yeah, well, nothin’ to be done about that now. I gotta see him if we want the information we need.”

“If you say so. But be careful.”

“I’ll be careful. I’ll call the Pas de Tour, see what messages they have for Mr. Forest. Now that they know we’re in town, Traiman’ll probably have them try to set a meeting.”

Jordan smiled. “Bet that clerk’ll be happy to hear from you.”

“Don’t you worry about that clerk. He gets paid by all sides. Typical Frenchman. Love the one you’re with.”

“Is that what this was all about?” Christine asked. “You risked your lives so this man Traiman would set up a meeting?”

Andrioli and Sandor shared a quick look.

“It’s more complicated than that,” was all that Andrioli would say.

“You said you had two friends you wanted to reach,” Sandor reminded him.

“Yeah,” Andrioli said, then took a bite of the ham and cheese baguette they’d been served. “I got a backup if Jackson doesn’t come through.”

They were quiet for a while, each of them sifting through their personal ordeal. Then Christine said, “I wish you’d killed the other man.”

The two men looked at her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jordan said. “They’re all interchangeable parts of the same machine.”

Christine shook her head. “He killed Jimmy. The big one killed Jimmy. You said so yourself.”

“I did, yes. But it might have been the little Arab who was there that day. What difference does it make which one of them pulled the trigger?”

Andrioli put down his sandwich and looked across the table at them, his eyes ghostly sad, the eyes of a man with a terminal illness. “He didn’t pull the trigger,” he said quietly. “Jimmy pulled the trigger. Just like I did. Sometimes the gun doesn’t go off right away, that’s all. It’s only a matter of time.”

Jordan reached out and gave Andrioli a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Don’t get all preachy on us now.”

“Sorry, but I don’t want Christine walking around all full of hate about this for the rest of her life. Truth is, Jimmy and I were stupid and greedy and selfish, and we created everything we became. We couldn’t see tomorrow for today. We were little boys playing soldier, just like a lot of little boys. Except most of us grow up. Take responsibility. Care about something or someone other than ourselves.”

“What about us?” Christine asked him. “You’re helping us, aren’t you?”

“Helping you do what? Get yourselves killed? Jimmy never should have gotten you mixed up in all this to start with. Now you’re stuck with me, a condemned man who wants to repent for his sins. If you two had an ounce of sense, you’d get up right now and walk straight to the embassy. Period. You’re nuts if you don’t.”

Jordan looked him in the eye and said, “That’s not an option. You know it, and I know it. There’s too much at stake here for us to stop now, not to mention that we’ve aided and abetted a fugitive, traveled on forged passports and shot up the streets of Fort Lauderdale and Paris.”

Andrioli could not resist a crooked grin. “Good point.”

Sandor nodded slowly. “There really is too much at stake.

“More than you know,” Andrioli agreed.